


A Radiant Rocinante Christmas

by blue_spruce



Category: The Expanse (TV)
Genre: Gen, holiday feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:29:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28140183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_spruce/pseuds/blue_spruce
Summary: “It’s ancient,” Jim says, and he looks entirely unimpressed, but then the music swells and rises and suddenly he grins and opens his mouth and belts along with the closing line. “Have yourself a merry little Christmas—”“Myears,” Alex says, but quirks his mouth up to let Jim know he doesn’t mean it.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 29
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	A Radiant Rocinante Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bard/gifts).



“Where did you _find_ that?” Jim asks, popping his head through the hatch.

“Huh?” Alex asks, looking up from the display dash he’s been engrossed in for the past hour. It takes him a minute, but then: “Oh,” he says, grinning, “you like it?”

“It’s ancient,” Jim says, and he looks entirely unimpressed, but then the music swells and rises and suddenly he grins and opens his mouth and belts along with the closing line. “Have yourself a merry little Christmas—”

“My _ears_ ,” Alex says, but quirks his mouth up to let Jim know he doesn’t mean it. The man has a decent voice, to be honest. 

“Okay, but seriously,” Jim says when the song ends. “I haven’t heard that in years, and I didn’t think Mars went in for Christmas celebrations.” An old Martian jazz ensemble is playing now, and Alex feels a very faint, almost sweet, wash of homesickness.

“Oh, yeah,” Alex agrees, and sits back in his chair, propping his feet up. “Bad form to celebrate Terra holidays. But I went through the media drives from the last salvage run we did and found a bunch of cool stuff, downloaded it to the Roci.”

Amos comes through the door then, looking irritated. “Piece of _shit_ equipment,” he mutters, clomping past Jim and throwing himself into a seat. “I thought you were gonna get me some good tools,” he says to Jim accusingly.

“Now, now,” Alex says soothingly, “where’s your holiday spirit?” Amos looks at him blankly. “Christmas,” Alex says, raising his eyebrows. 

“...Ah,” Amos says, after a beat. “I forgot.” He frowns, very slightly, and rubs a frustrated hand over his face. 

“We haven’t been back in too long.” Jim’s voice is joking, but Amos’s frown deepens. 

As Jim leaves, wandering back towards whatever project had been holding his attention, Alex scrolls through the other old music he had scavenged a few weeks ago. “Any requests?” he asks Amos. “Whoever had this library must have been a fan of the old Terra classics.” Amos snorts. “What?”

“I’ve never been into the holiday thing,” Amos replies, sounding a little testy. “Back on Earth, winter was cold, and Christmas or whatever holiday people were celebrating just meant cold with some decorations.” He looks at Alex, gaze hard. “I need help with the air supply valve outlets and the thruster repairs we talked about earlier, if you’re done reminiscing.” 

Alex sighs. “Sure thing,” he agrees. He selects a song with “Christmas Tree” in the title before he stands up to follow Amos out of the room; it wouldn’t hurt, he thinks, to try to bring a little of the magic from those ancient Terra vids onto the Roci. 

He’s still thinking about it later, all the repairs done. Amos is still in a sullen mood, although really, what else is new. “A gift exchange,” he says, coming up behind Amos and slinging an arm over his shoulder. 

“What?”

“A gift exchange,” Alex repeats. “That’s what we need.” Amos doesn’t say anything, and Alex takes that as permission to continue. “That’s what people always did in the old vids from Terra—drawing names out of a hat or…” He trails off, squinting, trying to remember. “Didn’t they hang their shoes on the wall, or something.”

Amos ducks out from under his arm and starts shrugging out of his jumpsuit. “Stockings,” he says flatly. 

“Ah,” Alex agrees, “yes, stockings on the wall.” He eyes the metal walls of the Roci’s hallway dubiously. “Well. Perhaps we can—hmm.”

“Leave our boots by the door?” Amos asks drily. He’s headed down the hall towards his bunk. “You want a drink?” he asks over his shoulder. “I’m headed off ship, told one of my old buddies here I’d meet him at that club by the miner docks.”

“Sure.” Alex studies the hallway for one more moment before following Amos. Boots...yes, that might work.

The club is loud and dark, glowing here and there with phosphorescent streaks of light. Amos and his friend don’t seem in much of a talking mood - not that Amos is ever in much of a talking mood, really. They greeted each other with a simple clap on the shoulder and silent nod, and are now slouched in a corner booth with some sort of bright blue toxic-looking drink in tall cups. Alex had spent a few minutes sitting with them and then headed to the bar, feeling antsy. He’s ready for the Roci to be done with her tune-ups, ready to leave this claustrophobic little asteroid behind. Somehow being here feels more confined, more uncomfortable than weeks aboard the Roci with no one but his crew to speak with ever does.

Eventually Amos is standing up and leaving his table and Alex follows him out, back the grimy passageways towards their dock. “You should leave your boots out,” Alex says with a companionable grin as they board. Amos looks at him, brow slightly furrowed. “Stockings,” he prompts, walking over to his chair and dropping into it, pulling up the music on his screen. 

Amos is just standing there, staring at him, when Alex looks up. “What?”

A huff of air, accompanied by a shrug. “Never got Christmas presents back on Earth,” Amos says flatly, but he comes over and leans against the wall near where Alex is sitting. 

Alex looks up at him. “Well,” he says after a small pause, “first time for everything.” Amos tips his head, just a fraction, which Alex takes as agreement.

He learns, that year, about an old Earth tradition he’d never seen on any of the vids—Jim pulls a rough chunk of iron ore out of the toe of one of his boots the day they gather to eat Alex’s Mariner Valley lasagne and exchange gifts. He holds it in his hand, examining it curiously, and then something seems to click and he looks up, his gaze unerringly finding Amos. “Nice coal stand-in,” he says, lips twitching, and then he laughs. 

Amos smiles, eyes on the floor. “Someone’s gotta keep your head from getting too big for your helmet,” he says, “and anyways, you still haven’t gotten me the good welder I asked for.”

Jim tosses a rock-like piece of freeze-dried bread at Amos’s head, for that, but it all ends happily enough, with more food and some extremely fiery whiskey that Alex suspects may have come from one of Naomi's unsavory OPA contacts.

It’s a perfect afternoon, actually, fake coal and all. Alex feels it, as he looks around—that warm, glowing happiness he always associated with the old holiday vids. He hums to himself as he starts to clean up from their meal, and Naomi joins him, bumping a shoulder against him companionably. "That was nice," she says, wiping down the counter with quick, efficient strokes. 

He nods. "We should make it a tradition."

"A tradition," Amos says from the doorway behind them, and Alex turns to see Amos looking as contemplative as he ever does, which is to say: impassive, with somewhat less of a glower than usual. 

"I'm in," Naomi says, "but only if next year there's some Belter food included on the menu."

Alex laughs. "Sure thing." He puts the last of the plates away and walks past Amos on his way towards his room, patting Amos on the shoulder as he goes. "You in, friend?"

"It's not like I'll be doing anything else," Amos says, his voice following Alex down the hall. 

"Perfect," Alex calls over his shoulder. "Next year, then. Same time. Same place." He shakes his head but smiles to himself. Yes, he thinks. Yes, indeed. A perfect afternoon.


End file.
